The Rain
by lauTOre
Summary: Charlie's thoughts during Margaret's funeral


Hey, so this is my first story on this website. I hope you like it.  
You will notice that my English is rather bad, because it isn't my mother tongue. That's the reason why I'm looking for a beta. Please contact me if you'd be willing to do it.  
Oh, and I don't own Numb3rs in case you believed the contrary.  
And now… enjoy!

The Rain

It was raining. Big and heavy drops fell from the sky in fast sequence and spread their cold glint upon the soil. The sun had disappeared, a long time ago already. The bright, warming light shone only in the memory. Would it ever shine again?  
The rain seemed to have washed away all colours of the world. The world was empty, desolate, grey. Grey and black.  
Somebody had given him an umbrella into his hand. A black umbrella. Charlie couldn't remember where it came from. It was not important, yet. It wouldn't have been important if he had had none, if the rain had pattered down on him.  
Did it still rain, anyway? Or were the reason for his limited sight his tear-filled eyes?

~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 5 ~ 1 ~ 9 ~ 4 ~ 9 ~ 1 ~ 6 ~ 1 ~ 2 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 4 ~

On his shoulders, Charlie felt an arm, a masculine, heavy arm. It was his father. And Charlie knew with certainty – without knowing why – that on Alan's other side, there was his brother Don and felt also an arm around his shoulders in this very moment. As if Alan wanted to caress his sons. Or as if he wanted to lean himself on them. The 'why' was subordinate.  
As through a curtain Charlie could barely see the letters and the numbers on the cold stone.

Margaret Eppes  
23.5.1949 - 16.1.2004

Charlie's brain worked automatically and much too fast. Fifty-five years, almost 656 months, 2904 weeks, 20,326 days, circa 487,824 hours, 29,269,440 minutes, 1,756,166,400 seconds.  
Three years thereof she had spent alone with Charlie in Princeton, without Donnie, without her husband. Three years, thirty-six months, one hundred fifty-six weeks, one thousand ninety-five days, twenty-six thousand two hundred eighty hours, one million five hundred seventy-six thousand eight hundred minutes, ninety-four million six hundred eight thousand seconds.  
94,608,000 seconds.  
That was nearly a nineteenth of her lifetime, nearly 5.4 per cent; it was five point four per cent of her sumptuous lifetime that she had sacrificed towards her youngest son.  
It was impossible that she didn't regret that.

~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 5 ~ 1 ~ 9 ~ 4 ~ 9 ~ 1 ~ 6 ~ 1 ~ 2 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 4 ~

2-3-5. That were the first three prime numbers. It was one of Charlie's earliest memories of him standing in front of his mother in her blue dress and trying to tell her his thoughts: that his mother was something very special because her birthday was something special... It was much later that he could remember that his mother was born in may, in may, not only in the fifth month.  
Reluctantly, Charlie's gaze flew from the prime numbers to the date three days ago. 1-6-1-two multiplied by four... Phi, the beauty in a word. What irony.  
Or wasn't it? Maybe it wasn't bad, this dying? Maybe it was really better for Margaret, better than the illness, better than the agony... just dark rest and silence...

~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 5 ~ 1 ~ 9 ~ 4 ~ 9 ~ 1 ~ 6 ~ 1 ~ 2 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 4 ~

_Stop it_, Charlie told himself. _Stop wriggling out. Stop looking for patterns where there aren't any. Death better than life, agony better than luck... you aren't even able to convince yourself about that. Give in. You can't wash you clean from this fault. You'll be dirty forever.  
_You'll be dirty forever. Always stained by the fault to have brought this awful amount of agony to his mother in her very last breaths.

He hadn't been with her, nearly never. Yes, in the beginning, of course, when she was still better. When the disease clenched her in its clutches, however, he had run away.  
The last three months of her disease he had been withdrawn, three months, an eighth of her disease, twelve and a half per cent. Three months, 92 days, 2208 hours, 132,480 minutes, 7,948,800 seconds.  
7,948,800 seconds he had been hiding from her. Not even a twelfth, not even this fraction of her temporary sacrifice, he had given back to her. But Margaret understood, his father and Don would say, even though quite trenchantly. And still. He hadn't been with her. He had spent nearly the whole time in the garage, hadn't given back any of the 94,608,000 seconds, had wasted the time in the garage.  
For nothing.  
He hadn't made it.  
P-versus-NP had been remaining unsolved.

The desperation overwhelmed Charlie again every time when he thought about it. It overwhelmed him and the numbers being unable to protect him now, from whose world he was seized by the thoughts occupied by grief. All the weeks he had been withdrawn, he had retreated from his family, from his mother, had seen only the cold, green boards with the terms not helping him, being erased with anger and desperation, day and night. And he had failed.  
Margaret had died before he had solved it. And he had known it. He had known that it would be like this from the very beginning, even before he had started working on it. He had known that the problem was unsolvable. The problem cancer. The problem P-versus-NP. Whatever. And yet, he hadn't stopped working on it. It had simply been too simple. He couldn't have stood the temptation. It was that much easier looking for a solution than recognizing the only solution, than looking the truth, the dying, in the eye. It was that much easier crawling up into the maths than holding out bravely at the bedside of a dying woman, waiting for the release of her woes to come.  
P-versus-NP had been perfect. It was unsolvable. He could crawl up in it until the bitter end. And if yes, if he had solved it despite all, if he had made possible the impossible, all the other things would have become a child's play. If yes, he would have been able to solve this other problem, too. If yes, he would have been able to show his mother a way out of her disease.  
If he had only thought once about his mother instead of always.

~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 5 ~ 1 ~ 9 ~ 4 ~ 9 ~ 1 ~ 6 ~ 1 ~ 2 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 4 ~

It was his fault. With the grief he had created in her, he had taken her spirit of life. He knew it. It was his fault. He had taken Alan's wife and Don's mother. For the second time. And this time it wasn't only for 94,608,000 seconds.  
Surely Don and Alan made him reproaches. Of course they made him reproaches; they had no choice if they wanted to remain honest. With certainty they sentenced him because he hadn't given Margaret the necessary strength, because he hadn't done his part in the family.  
Charlie was sure they would never forgive him, as little as he'd do himself. And he didn't know how he could ever look them in the eye.

_You failed..._

Only Margaret had understood him. She had stood by him. Always. Without any conditions. Always. Even on the death bed.  
The knot in Charlie's throat grew to five thirds of his already remarkable size. Dully he wondered how much tear moisture man could produce within few days, while the blurry stone in front of his eyes changed into Margaret's haggard face.  
He had held her hand, silently. He hadn't been able to produce sounds, not to mention words. She, however, had spoken, being strong until the end. She had absolved him. She had said she forgave him. She had said she understood him. The only human being that had always understood him was gone. She had had to go, involuntarily, in agony, in pain. It wasn't fair at all.  
She had always been so strong, so self-sacrificing, during the whole 1,756,166,400 seconds. She hadn't deserved it. She hadn't deserved to go this way, to _crawl_ this way. She would have deserved more joy, less agony. She would have deserved a more dignified death, upright, standing. She would have deserved a longer life, a fulfilled one.

Had her life been fulfilled?

Yeah, sure… probably yes. She had always been happy, Charlie considered and a longing, desperate smile agonised its way into his distorted features when he thought of her fun-loving spirit. Always a smile on her lips, even when it went towards the end. Always some encouraging words, always a warming consolation making the persons she loved shiver, always the strength from the mouth belonging to the weak figure. Always a light for those being destined to let her leave into the darkness.

He didn't want it! He didn't want her to be gone! He didn't want her voice never to sound again, he didn't want her hand never again to lie on his, he didn't want her fingers never again to play a wonderful melody on the piano. He wanted her back! She should come back! It couldn't be true! Why her? Why her of all persons? And why hadn't he been able to inhibit that? He wanted to call it off!

But it was past. It was over. He couldn't have found an exit. She was gone.  
The sun had extinguished. It was raining.

~ 2 ~ 3 ~ 5 ~ 1 ~ 9 ~ 4 ~ 9 ~ 1 ~ 6 ~ 1 ~ 2 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 4 ~

- The End -

PS: Maybe I should've warned you. There were quite a lot numbers in it. Well, yeah... but "everything _is _numb3rs", isn't it?


End file.
